


Broken Blades, Muddy Boots

by Silverite_Pride



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverite_Pride/pseuds/Silverite_Pride
Summary: It's been five years since Valythari set out from her clan in the Free Marches.  She's older, now.  Tired.  She can't even recognize the naive, confident girl she'd once been.Just outside Wycome, she prepares to see her clan again, after five years away.  And she will grit her teeth, and smile, and answer their questions about her missing vallaslin, and pretend her spirit isn't crumbling inside.Angsty one-shot in response to the reddit prompt: "Reluctant homecoming, broken blades, muddy boots"
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 5





	Broken Blades, Muddy Boots

Valythari slung her bow over her shoulder and stared down at her reflection in the calm, clear pond.

She didn’t recognize the bare-faced woman staring back at her. That woman looked tired. Worn. Old. There were dark circles under her eyes, faint lines around her mouth, and the weight of too many lives, too many fates, too many futures bearing down on her.

She sighed, hesitated just a moment longer, then turned her muddy boots north.

Only a few hours now. 

Then she would reach Wycome’s gates. She would see her people again.

 _Her people_ …

The last five years hounded her like wolves in the night, relentless and cruel, stealing away her heart and her spirit, one piece at a time.

_Her people…_

The _last_ thing she wanted was to see Clan Lavellan again. But now Deshanna was on the council of Wycome, and Josephine’s incessant nagging about the importance of diplomacy in the Free Marches had finally pushed her to agree to this.

The clan would smile at her and welcome her back with open arms. They would ask about her vallaslin and about her shimmering prosthetic arm. They would want to hear stories about her adventures. They would invite her to hunt with them and give her a seat of honor at the celebration they’d throw in her name.

And she would grit her teeth, and bite her tongue, and scream on the inside as another piece of her splintered and fractured spirit crumbled away. Even now, still hours away, that pain throbbed deep in her heart.

She knew it was this pain, this dread, that had called _him_ to her.

Usually, she only saw him once every few weeks, hovering at the boundary of her awareness. But now, he was there every night. Watching her.

He knew she was reaching her limit. He could feel her being pulled to oblivion, he could feel the groaning strain of the frayed threads keeping her spirit from being swept away.

She was sure he knew where she was. He had to know that she was going to see her clan. That she would be reunited with her people once more.

That she would watch as they sang and prayed to the Creators.

As the guest of honor, she would be expected to join in.

And once, she would have been _thrilled_. She would have gladly stood there, shoulder to shoulder with her clan, her family, her friends, and lifted up her voice right along with theirs.

But that wasn’t her world anymore. Those weren’t her people anymore.

They would never be her people again.

Fortunately, one thing Fen’Harel _had_ given her was the ability to carefully arrange the remaining shards of her spirit into something vaguely recognizable. He’d taught her how to wear her pain like a diamond around her neck, how to smile and laugh and pretend she was still whole.

So she would pretend now. She would smile and hug her old friends, she would laugh and reminisce and sing, and pretend the air didn’t feel thick enough to drown her.

Five years ago, she’d been happy. Free. Eager to complete the mission Deshanna had given her.

“It will be a long and dangerous journey, da'len,” she’d warned. “You will be alone in a hostile land, torn apart by war.”

“I can do it, Keeper.”

She’d been so determined. So naïve.

She’d just been so _sure_ , of everything. Of her beliefs, her faith, her mission, _herself_. She’d enjoyed such an unshakeable confidence in her perception of reality. The simple confidence of someone who had never had their perception challenged. Who had never failed. Who had never lost.

And then, bit by bit, it had all crumbled around her. Her beliefs. Her faith. Her heart. Her world.

Everything she’d held dear. Everything she’d loved.

It was gone. That naïve girl was gone. Now there was only an empty, thudding ache, echoing beneath the brittle shell holding her up.

She was older now. Rusted and broken like an unused, forgotten dagger.

She was weaker now. Brittle and frail. Shattered and shaken, the pieces of her spirit barely holding together.

She was tired now. Heavy, slow, weak.

But then, whenever she felt like she was reaching her limit, when her spirit cried out with a wordless, desperate scream of unrelenting agony, when she felt she was drowning and lacked the strength to reach the surface for one more breath, that’s when _he_ appeared.

Calm, quiet, always out of reach, always lingering at the edges of her dreams.

And even across the great distance he kept between them, she could hear the song of his sadness reflecting hers. She could feel his loneliness. His despair. His regret.

On those nights, he would stay, all night if she wanted him to, so long as she didn’t reach for him or chase him. He would remain with her, hovering nearby, offering the quiet comfort and gentle understanding that only he could give her.

And she would lie still, feeling the weight of her burden pressing down against her chest as she breathed, feeling the blade of her loss and longing digging ever deeper.

Feeling _him_ , there with her.

He was the only one who knew what she felt. He was the only one who could understand what she’d lost.

Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, the villain of her pantheon, the story told to frighten children, was the only one who knew what it felt like to have her name swept away by the tide of her title. He was the only one who knew what it felt like to crumble and cry alone beneath the immeasurable mountains of a broken and frightened world.

The only one who knew what it felt like to cry out for relief, only to be met by the silent, uncaring impassivity of existence.

_How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with fewer ripples._

She wasn’t the first to be swept away in the currents, sacrificed beneath the sea so the rest of the world could stand taller. Andraste had once, long ago, suffered under the same burden, and she hadn’t been the first, either.

Even Fen’Harel, even Solas, was not the first.

They were merely the next links forged in the chain upon which hung the world.

And whenever the pressure became too great, whenever she collapsed, shattered, weak, broken, _he_ was there. Urging her to stand. To take just _one more step_. And then one more.

And then one more.

Because he knew this pain she felt. He knew just how ragged and raw her spirit was. How much of her heart she had left behind.

He knew.

And he knew how much it would hurt to look into the eyes of those she once called _hers_. Looking into the eyes of everything she’d lost.

Only a few hours, now.

She would knock the ice from her bones and step into the role that she’d been chosen to play.

She would play it well. None of them will ever know that her smile was empty, that the spirit behind her eyes had gone dark.

It will hurt. It always does. But she will survive. And then she will take just one more step. And then one more.

_And then one more…_


End file.
